


Yours from the start

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Banter, Blow Jobs, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Coming Untouched, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, First Love, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Jealousy, Light Bondage, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Marathon Sex, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Crowley (Good Omens), Praise Kink, Public Sex, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Sparring, Switch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switch Crowley (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), Wall Sex, Wing Kink, a few wall scenes, accidentally in love, history’s first fuckbuddies, in which Crowley is the most patient husband give him a medal, look it's 6000 years they switch, or is it a very fast burn, pining for someone you’re sleeping with, six thousand years of Crowley through Aziraphale’s eyes, star crossed lovers, they do end up against walls an awful lot don’t they?, very happy, we just don't know, why are there so many tags this is honestly just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-01 03:31:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21358120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: Nobody would suspect that Aziraphale, reluctant Principality and fidgety Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, would have a tryst with a demon.This is a good thing. It means they’re less likely to get caught.“You’re about to say yes, angel,” murmurs the serpent behind him, hot breath against the shell of his ear and hands lost inside Aziraphale’s mint-green silk robe. “I can feel it.”🍎In which Crowley and Aziraphale have been sleeping together since Eden and somehow still manage to pine after each other for six thousand years.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 938
Kudos: 2623
Collections: Bittersweet Good Omens, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side





	1. Eden, 4004 BC

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, this is a chaptered WIP and most people don’t like to read unfinished works (tbh I generally don’t either), HOWEVER:
> 
>   1. This is all completely written out, so unless I get hit by a bus Regina George style you’ll get an update every day.
>   2. You won’t forget important plot points between updates, because there are almost none to remember. The overarching plot is that they’re very much in love. That’s it, that’s the plot.
>   3. I’m not in the business of delayed gratification, they’re small chapters but each one is a finished scene by itself (I could almost post them as a series), so you won’t ever be left on a cliffhanger.
> 
> If you want to check for squicks I have a bare-bones outline of the whole fic up in [a tumblr post](https://chamyl.tumblr.com/post/188889148554/yfts). Or hmu! Also, they play around with gender presentation a tiny bit but they both have a penis every time it’s explicitly mentioned what they have between their legs (this is for folks who are triggered by switching body parts).
> 
> With infinite thanks to [Ingthing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingthing/), who not only writes beautiful things of her own but is also betaing this hard and stanning Aziraphale along the way (don't we all...).

“Your wings,” he says, when the rain stops.

“What about my wings?” Aziraphale asks, taking a step back.

“They’re in rather bad shape, aren’t they?”

“Well,” the angel reaches up to pat along the edge of a primary. “It’s hardly fair to judge them when they’re wet.”

Crawly tilts his head to the side, inspecting the feathers more closely. “I think that’s the least of it.”

Aziraphale takes a step back. “Thank you for your concern, but they’re absolutely fine. They might not be in tip-top shape at the moment, but it is nothing to worry about.”

“You sure?” Crawly purses his lips. “Do you want me to…” He makes a vague kneading gesture with his hands.

“Goodness, no.” One more step back. Crawly immediately drops his hands. “I-I mean, no, thank you, that won’t be necessary.”

Crawly fixes his gaze on the desert in front of him. “I just assumed angels would help one another with that kind of thing.”

“Well…” Aziraphale twists the ring around his pinky, remembering. There had been a time when Heaven was a little softer and ranks weren’t quite as strict, when they used to groom one other’s wings regularly. Not anymore. It’s been a long, long time since he’s had anyone he could ask for such a favour. “It must have slipped my mind.”

Crawly hums. Then, quietly, “bit of a shame.”

Aziraphale blinks and turns to him. “W-what did you say?”

“I said, _bit of a shame._” Crawly replies, louder and slower.

“What is?”

“About your wings.” The demon gives him a half-shrug. “The humans are new, impressionable. And you’re the first angel they see. They might talk about you to their offspring. Write about you when the time comes. You’re a representative of the Almighty on this earth, aren’t you? Bit of a shame if they were to notice a demon’s wings are much better groomed.”

Aziraphale chances a look at Crawly’s wings. It’s true. They are, well… beautiful (_just as the rest of him_, his brand-new brain has the gall to suggest). Very well groomed. Shiny and neat, not completely black at all. They gleam with emerald greens and warm bronzes when the sun hits them just right. Magnificent, absolutely stunning.

The angel blushes, partly in shame, partly because of something else he doesn’t have a word for yet.

“I suppose I can’t allow that to happen,” he agrees, slowly. “If you’d be willing, that is.”

He stares down at his feet and misses the brief, elated look on the demon’s face. Crawly very soon schools his features into something much more dignified.

“Heh, I don’t have much else to do right now.” He’s already walking off the wall – literally, ignoring gravity as his feet stick to the vertical surface and he nonchalantly steps back into the Garden, easy as anything. “And you’d owe me one, so.”

Aziraphale, more primly, uses his (messy, embarrassing) wings to flutter down. He follows Crawly to a more secluded spot under an oak tree. The demon plops on the ground and invites the angel to sit before him. Aziraphale has some qualms about turning his back on a demon (particularly _this_ demon), but if his wings are to be groomed there isn’t really any viable alternative.

He sits down, cross-legged, plants his hands on the grass, and leans forward a bit. Crawly gets up on his knees behind him and starts working on his wings.

Almost immediately Aziraphale has to bring his palm, damp with dew, to his mouth. Crawly’s hands _burn_. And he wishes he could say it’s a bad kind of burn, but it really, _really _ isn’t. He’s never experienced anything such as this. 

When Crawly touches the spot between his wings, even through the fabric, his warmth immediately seeps into Aziraphale’s skin (are snakes even supposed to be warm?), sending electric shocks up his spine. 

It isn’t… no, it isn’t bad, it isn’t a bad feeling at all.

Oh, but it feels positively _sinful_. Aziraphale would know, he’s only been here a short time and he’s already taken some detours from his official duty to take a bite of every fruit in the Garden. They aren’t forbidden, he justified to himself. He has a corporation now, and corporations can eat. They don’t _have to_, but they can. And he was bored. And the pears, oh, the pears looked absolutely scrumptious, and they were so sweet. He enjoyed the excitement of sinking his teeth into their yielding flesh, the saccharine sweetness of their juice, that comfortable weight on his tongue.

This feeling seems similar, and yet not quite the same.

Crawly sinks his fingers into the feathers with the same abandon and confidence of a practiced pianist playing his favourite song, and Aziraphale _moans_ into his palm.

“S-sorry,” he stutters. “Sensitive.”

Which isn’t a lie. It’s not the full truth, either. It’s been a long time ago, but he’s had his wings groomed, and it never, _ever_ felt like this. It’s something to do with Crawly’s hands, he’s sure. They feel good. Not in the way the sunlight on his skin feels good, not like the soft fabric of his tunic enveloping him. Those hands are awakening something in him, something he’s never experienced before. His heart beats in his ears, his vision starts to swim. He’s panting, he realises. Crawly doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

There’s heat rushing down Aziraphale's body, to his… legs? Not quite, no. It’s all going towards…

Oh.

He doesn’t remember making an effort.

But it’s there, undeniable, already hard, tenting the fabric of his clothing. Bloody good thing that Crawly's behind his back now.

“How’s this?” The demon murmurs at his nape, his breath hot and wet against Aziraphale's ear. Crawly is working on the most sensitive coverts now, close to the spine.

Aziraphale has some trouble answering with anything that isn’t a whimper. He must be red in the face, he can feel it. He swallows hard and nods his head, hoping Crawly will take it and not demand an actual answer.

Luckily, the demon doesn’t. He doesn’t stop, either. He has long, dexterous fingers – strong, too. He never hurts, but he doesn’t ask for permission, he doesn’t hesitate. He moves like he knows the paths of Aziraphale's body by heart (_no, not of his body_, Aziraphale’s mind tries to correct, _of his wings, which aren’t technically a part of his body_). He knows where to push, where to pull, when to press. Where to brush, lightly, with a fingertip, where to give him the delicate scraping of nails, and Aziraphale is having trouble breathing. No, actually – he’s having trouble _not panting_, which is quite different. He’s clutching his knees hard enough his knuckles have turned white.

He bends forward, farther down, instinctively protecting and hiding that needy, unruly _thing_ between his legs, which will get a serious talking-to later on. Later on, when his brain starts working again, because now it absolutely isn’t. All he can do is try not to make noises, but Crawly must have noticed, how could he not? Aziraphale doesn’t dare chance a look behind him.

Crawly’s hands are deep between his tertials now, close, so close to his skin, the demon’s palms are full of angel feathers and he pushes up hard and fast – and it’s all over. Aziraphale trembles and grits his teeth as he spills all over his legs, eyes wide open in shock, a choked sound barely muffled behind closed lips. It feels so good he forgets, for a moment, that he’s an angel, that Crawly is a demon, that he’s getting his wings groomed and he shouldn’t be having this kind of reaction to it, forgets that he has a wet mess between his legs and _oh, how will he get out of this?_ He forgets all that, for an instant, and has the urge to turn around, push Crawly down to the grass, and take and give and taste and search for that same blinding pleasure again, and again, and again.

He doesn’t. Obviously, he doesn’t. Aziraphale breathes in, gathering himself, pushing down every last urge he doesn’t deem appropriate (which is all of them, at the moment).

Crawly’s hands are still on his wings. Why aren’t they moving? Has he noticed? Is he angry? Is he disgusted?

As if reading his thoughts, the demon says, “there. Feels so much better now, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale burns all over again at the question. But it doesn't come with sarcasm or scorn. It sounds almost… affectionate. Besides – wings. Crawly is talking about the wings. Aziraphale bats them a little, the left first and then the right, and he has to admit that they’re already doing a lot better. They feel like a weight has suddenly been lifted.

“I—yes. Uh, thank you.”

“S’nothing.” The demon stands up slowly, then offers him a hand up. Aziraphale has to pretend to be a lot clumsier than he really is to give himself a moment to miracle his legs clean, then turns around and takes the demon’s hand.

“I-I have to go, the hole… I mean, in the Wall, the hole through which they went… It’s my responsibility to close it.”

“All right.” Crawly shrugs, giving him half a smile. “Off you go then.”

“Right. Yes. Uh.” Aziraphale pats down his tunic, his hands moving frantically over the fabric. Perhaps it’ll be alright, it doesn’t look like Crawly saw. “Again, thank you. I… off I go, yes. Bye.”

Crawly gives him a weak wave of a hand and watches him go. It’s only after the angel has disappeared from sight and he’s counted to ten, then to twenty, then to thirty, that he circles around the tree, fumbles desperately with his dress, finds his throbbing cock and wraps a hand around it.

“_Fuck_.” He curses to the empty space around him, beginning to jerk himself off, looking for some sort of relief – _any_ kind of relief from this new, all-consuming _need _that's turned him into some kind of mindless animal who can’t even wait a full minute after the angel's gone before wanking furiously against a tree. He’s overwhelmed by the smell of Aziraphale’s skin, the softness of his wings – messy, sure, but heavenly soft. The little noises Aziraphale was making under his hands, the flushed back of his neck, the way he tensed completely and then went slack — the knowledge that it was because of him, it was for him, the angel’s first-ever orgasm on earth and it was all Crawly’s fault. Or merit. Jury’s still out on that one. It only takes a few seconds for Crawly to come all over his hand, his heart in his throat and his thoughts scrambled like shards of broken glass.

“What the fuck?” He asks in disbelief to nobody in particular, but also to anyone who could provide an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with beautiful art of [Crowley getting his hands on Aziraphale's wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760410) ~
> 
> I swear I wrote this chapter more than two weeks ago, before NG went feral on us about Crowley not knowing what you'd need two unicorns for. Not that I'm complaining about all the new art of them doing the hanky panky in Eden, but I am thoroughly amused. What can I say, I'm ahead of the curve ✨


	2. Mesopotamia, 3003 BC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to popular demand (*) now this fic's title is Fucking Through History. I'm sorry, I don't make the rules.
> 
> * three separate people calling this my "fucking through history fic"

It’s a thousand years before they see each other again. Maybe that’s a good thing.

As they watch the animals file into the ark, Crawly lands a few hits that Aziraphale fails to parry – about the flaming sword, about the flood that’ll wipe out all the locals. The angel is too concerned by what happened the last time they met. Is it possible that he’s thought about it every day? It doesn’t seem possible. And yet, it is.

He’s had a lot of time to ponder it over, and at some point he settled for the fact that he might have had a little innocuous infatuation for the demon, but one that came and went. Aziraphale told himself that the next time they saw each other he would feel nothing at all.

Except he doesn’t feel nothing, as they stand side by side in the crowd. He feels the opposite of nothing, in fact.

They part ways and Aziraphale settles inside the Ark. Noah’s family didn’t know him before today, but now they distantly recognise him as a dear old friend, and they all distinctly remember he has very useful healing skills. Not only they find space for him on the Ark, he's also given his own private quarters, with a door and a bed. Well, a sort of bed – a sad, uncomfortable thing of hay covered with a bit of fabric. Aziraphale quickly decides to talk it into being a little more plush and smell vaguely of lavender. He doesn’t really sleep, but he enjoys a soft, comfortable place to sit as much as the next angel.

All he has to do is treat a few colds, heal a few bruises, and repair a broken bone when Shem slips and falls on his wrist. The angel becomes a precious member of their little group, and his time on the Ark is as comfortable as it can be, all things considered.

Then, one day, his food begins to disappear.

He knows rations are limited, so he eats very little around the others. Angels don't technically need to eat at all, so he participates in meals just to ward off suspicion. But, when he’s in the privacy of his own little room, there’s no harm in miracling up a warm loaf of bread or a nice bottle of wine. Some roasted lamb when the day is particularly cold. For some late night nibbling, he’s been keeping some fresh fruit hidden in his room – grapes, figs, pears, a few apples.

He’s not sure what to think when he realises the fruit he’s hidden away for midnight snacking has vanished. He’s too well respected on the ship, nobody would come into his space without permission, much less go through his things. Besides, the Ark is big, but not so big that they don’t all know one another, and it would be foolish for anyone to risk being reprimanded over a bit of fruit.

Aziraphale decides the best course of action is to simply create more fruit and try to catch the little scamp. Maybe they just need a word of comfort and a pat on the shoulder to be set back on a righteous path. So he puts a little miracle on the door to alert him if anyone opens it and waits.

A few days later, he materialises inside his room as soon as he becomes aware of an uninvited presence there. The door behind him closes with a thud, and the thief turns to him, big eyes wide with the expectation of being struck across the face. And it’s…

It's a small child. Aziraphale is not good with ages. Five, six perhaps? As the kid starts to blabber apologies, Aziraphale tries to place him. Too dark-skinned to be a son of Japeth's. Too young to be a son of Shem's. What’s more, the angel’s never seen him before, not once.

“Say, young man, who is your father?” Aziraphale asks, as kindly as he can manage.

The child shakes his head.

“Your mother?” 

The child, again, shakes his head.

“Where have you been sleeping? Can you show me?” Aziraphale watches the kid scratch his arm and look away. “I can give you more apples if you show me.”

_Tempting humans with apples, are we now?_ Says a voice inside his head he tries very hard to ignore. The child, at any rate, seems swayed. He nods and takes Aziraphale’s hand, leading him out of the room.

They go down to where the animals are, then farther still, towards the front of the ship, where they can really feel the lurch of the stormy ocean under their feet.

They reach a door and, before it's even open, Aziraphale hears a familiar voice.

“Oi, goat boy, you’ve been cheating again?”

His heart skips a beat. He pushes the door open slowly and is treated to the sight of Crawly sprawled out on the floor on his stomach, staring down at a small child who’s beaming up at him over some sort of board game. Another child – a girl – looks like she’s been crying, and is currently curled up against his side, clinging to his tunic. And there are more children still, all of them playing or sleeping throughout the large room.

These children… they aren’t supposed to be here. He knows this just as surely as he knows Crawly is responsible for their presence. Aziraphale knows it just as surely as he knows the sinking, burning sensation in his stomach is not an innocent infatuation. He brings a hand up to his cheek, feeling somewhat like he’s been slapped in the face.

That’s when Crawly’s piercing golden eyes turn up at him. He sees the angel and his easy smile falters. Some of the children around him sense his discomfort and immediately look up to Aziraphale, fear in their eyes. Aziraphale clears his throat.

“Hello,” he says with a smile, trying to put everyone at ease – including himself, possibly. “Your friend here got lost. I brought him back.” He gently pushes the child who led him there forward. He pauses, taking in the stark room. Those sure are a lot of small humans staring up at him. Anxious faces poking out of ragged clothes, very few toys scattered among them.

“And what do we have here? Oh, my.” He starts pulling small wooden figurines out of his sleeve. A horse, a rabbit, a sheep. Some children rush to him, others stay back. He walks around and gives them all a toy each. When he’s done, he catches Crawly looking at him with a soft smile and Aziraphale's heart somersaults again.

How did he ever think this was just a crush, or just physical attraction?

Much later, Crawly meets the angel in his small room, where they can talk alone.

Crawly makes a case for himself. He rambles on about how he’s been disobeying the Almighty’s orders, how the children were supposed to die in the flood and he’ll probably get a commendation for this work once Hell hears about this. When he’s done circling the room and giving his little spiel, he sits down without a word. Aziraphale realises his own hands are shaking as they sit side by side on the bed, and the inevitability of what’s about to happen settles heavy on his shoulders. He looks at Crawly and only then does he realise the demon had finished talking a whole minute ago. This is where a reply would go, if Aziraphale had one. Crawly is looking at him quizzically and, when Aziraphale meets that gaze, the angel forgets to breathe.

Crawly is beautiful. Crawly is terrifying. All sharp angles and messy red curls, and those eyes, _those eyes_. Too big for that face, too alert, unblinking. Eyes that see everything, eyes that see right through him. Eyes that will never, ever let him forget that yes, Crawly is a demon. Those eyes can still be gentle – Aziraphale’s just seen it for himself, in the big room with all the children. They are always gentle when Crawly looks at him, but they leave Aziraphale with nowhere to hide.

Unquestionably, undeniably, this is a demon sitting next to him in his room, on his bed, staring at him, waiting for words that won’t come.

This is a demon who he’s leaning closer to, and the demon does not flinch, does not pull back. 

This is a demon whose cheek he’s touching, whose skin is prickly around the mouth but softer along the cheekbones, and the demon parts his lips in surprise and remains stock-still.

This is a demon Aziraphale is undressing, his fingers suddenly frantic and greedy, his face pressed into the demon’s neck, his lips against the demon’s pulse – quick, quick, quicker; and then the demon’s hands are on him, tender but confident, and do they know where to touch him? Or does it feel good anyway because they're _his _hands?

There are no words, a small comfort. Doing is one thing, but saying it aloud… no, this is unspeakable. Aziraphale will not say it aloud, he will not even think it. What he should do is smite himself, if that were at all possible.

Instead, he’ll take this very different kind of pain. Crawly’s lips are hungry and they consume every inch of skin he bares. Aziraphale’s open hands cling to his back, the demon’s shoulder blades shifting under his fingers as he lets himself be pushed down, pressed down, broken down, put back together. He keeps quiet for the most part, but the one moan he doesn’t manage to bite back reverberates through the walls, gets swallowed by the sounds of the tempest raging all around them.


	3. Mediterranean, Ancient Age

Sometimes, Aziraphale thinks there are no true angels. Only fallen angels and those who have yet to fall. He feels Heaven's claustrophobic grasp around his neck and struggles to breathe (he doesn’t need to breathe, _he doesn’t need to breathe_, he reminds himself, and it’s enough to calm him down a bit).

These are dangerous thoughts. He tries to push them away. He becomes harsher on Crawly in those moments, accusing him of being responsible for every single human wrongdoing. But it’s never the demon’s fault. He finds out early on that Crawly’s particular brand of misconduct is wide-scale daily annoyances. The wars, the genocides – that’s not him. That’s the humans.

(God created humans in Her image. What does their behaviour say about Her?)

(Aziraphale lets that question slip away to the very back of his mind.)

Crawly, on the other hand, is very proud of himself when he popularises the use of kohl among the Egyptian upper-class. It's a colossal waste of time that requires an incredibly steady hand. A blink at the wrong moment leaves any vain noble looking like a panda. As Egypt grows in power, though, the two of them end up living there for a while, and the demon gets into the habit of using makeup himself. When Aziraphale asks Crawly why he doesn’t stop whining about it and just miracle it on, the demon insists it’s not the same as doing it the human way.

Aziraphale very, _very_ secretly thinks he looks quite dashing in kohl and doesn’t press the issue.

It becomes a regular occurrence, this _thing_ between them neither of them are going to name. They become more careful. When they meet, both of them ward the room against intrusions – Aziraphale blesses the doors and the windows so that no demons can pass through. Crawly casts a curse that does the same thing, except against angels.

They both realise this also means that they’re trapped inside the room by the magic of the other. That they are, indeed, at each other’s mercy for the night.

They both realise this thought doesn’t upset them at all.

There is a small incident in Greece around the year 400 BC. The island of Skopelos has become renewed in all of the Mediterranean for its wine. (Aziraphale doesn’t know this yet, but one of his favourite movies will be shot there, a few thousand years later.) He and Crawly meet by accident, and Aziraphale quickly turns away and pretends not to see him. Crawly passes him by, an inscrutable look on his face.

A few days later, their roads cross again in a tavern. This time, Aziraphale goes to him.

“I’m afraid I was caught by surprise,” he offers as an explanation. “May I pay for your wine tonight?”

Crawly stares at him for a while, then smacks his lips and nudges an empty glass in his direction.

And, little by little, a miracle begins to bloom: they become friends. They can talk for hours, about anything and everything, and it just feels _right_. It shouldn’t feel right at all – as Aziraphale is acutely aware – they are an angel and a demon, they are hereditary enemies, they should absolutely loathe each other. But they don’t. They really, really don’t.

The angel can’t help his mind wandering, sometimes, and asks himself whether it’d be any different if they were on the same side. But even if they were… angels are supposed to love all of God’s creations equally, broadly, and never love anything more than the Almighty Herself. By contrast, demons aren’t supposed to love at all. Even if, God forbid, Aziraphale were to Fall, this tryst would still be forbidden. There’s no way out. 

Still, he can’t help thinking that it’d be a little easier on his nerves if Crawly were still an angel. 

He feels utterly stupid when, in 33 AD, he catches himself wondering whether Jesus’ sacrifice has turned Crawly—_Crowley_ back into an angel. When they meet in Rome, Crowley is regrettably still very much a demon, and, even more regrettably, Aziraphale realises he still doesn’t care enough to break their strange, unspoken thing off. He’s simply eager to spend time with Crowley, even though it’s only been a few years since they last saw each other.

Aziraphale invites him out for oysters. Crowley gives him a strange look above his tiny spectacles. Eating together in public is more dangerous than being wrapped up in each other in a pocket of the universe where they can’t be found. They both know this, as they make their way to the restaurant. Aziraphale insists that it’ll be fine, it’ll be very crowded, no one will notice them. Crowley doesn’t say anything. Maybe he doesn’t agree. Maybe he doesn’t agree, but he’ll come along anyway because, whenever Aziraphale makes an offer, Crowley doesn't turn it down. When Aziraphale wants something, Crowley doesn't deny him.

“Let me,” Aziraphale asks, much later that day, when the sun has set and they’re both slightly drunk and have retired to Aziraphale’s rooms.

“Angel…” Crowley exhales when Aziraphale drops to his knees, pushing up his black toga and lavishing kisses along his bare knee, up his thigh, on the sharp jut of his hip. An overwhelming feeling of love settles heavily all around them. Aziraphale is reminded of late summer days, walking through an orchard as the sun begins to set, the loud hum of cicadas all around him and the sweet, overpowering smell of the ripe fruit in the sticky heat. It's peace he finds in all of this, despite the singing of the bugs, despite the stinging scent of the juice-heavy fruit, or maybe because of them.

He closes his eyes as he takes Crowley into his mouth, the weight of his stiffening cock on his tongue. His taste, the way Crowley's long fingers twitch without daring to reach out and touch him. This is completely wrong, Aziraphale knows – an angel, kneeling before a demon, in a position that could be seen as subservience to his mortal enemy.

But it’s not like that at all. Aziraphale is the one who needs this, he is the one who asked for it. He feels completely in control, for once. He’s grateful, even, that Crowley would let himself be so vulnerable and exposed for him. He begins bobbing his head, experimenting – and Crowley’s cock can’t help reacting to it, straightening further as it becomes completely hard. Aziraphale tries moving his tongue at the same time, and he tastes salt and bitterness in his mouth. He grips the demon’s hips, working just the tip now – and Crowley’s head lolls back, his teeth biting into his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Crowley tries to keep quiet at first but, little by little, moan after moan escapes his throat, louder and louder, encouraging the angel to go faster, harder.

When Aziraphale becomes confident enough, he grabs Crowley’s hands and guides them to his head. _Show me. Show me how you like it best. I want to learn everything you like and how to do it for you._

Crowley is unsure, as he rarely is – Aziraphale takes his hands again and presses them into his curls, hard. He’s not giving him permission, he’s asking him to do it. And if he’s asking, well – Crowley will say yes. Crowley always says yes.

So Crowley does. Carefully, at first, testing out how much he can push and pull without hurting the angel, then quicker and harder when he’s sure it really is alright. Aziraphale reaches down between his own legs, tugging the heavy fabric of his own toga out of the way, and finds his cock, painfully hard now, and begins to stroke himself as Crowley pushes in and out of his mouth. For a long, long moment, nothing else but the two of them exist in the whole blessed world. He’s suspended in a gilded reality where everything is fine, everything is warm, where the smell and taste of Crowley goes straight to his head faster than any wine ever could, where pleasure builds in his groin and sparks fly up his spine with every stroke of his hand. And then Crowley is saying something, perhaps not even making sense, cursing and blessing and calling Aziraphale’s name, again and again, and then he’s coming into his mouth, and Aziraphale has to still for a moment to be able to take him – and then, as soon as Crowley is done, he finishes himself off in three smooth motions.

Crowley drops to the floor in front of him. The angel is moaning, a hand still wrapped around himself, as the demon kisses him hard, silently thanking him – even though, Aziraphale thinks, he’s the one who took rather than the one who gave.

When the truth can’t be spoken out loud there are millions of other ways to communicate it – although, without words, it’s all up for interpretation. But maybe that’s a comfort. Maybe, when Crowley pulls them both onto the bed and holds Aziraphale to his chest until the break of dawn, Aziraphale can tell himself it’s because Crowley is tired. He can tell himself that it’s just sex. That it has nothing to do with the unstoppable force pulling them towards each other, nothing to do with the uncomfortable feeling fluttering in his chest.

The love that weighs down his eyelids, that settles over him like a heavy, soft blanket – maybe it doesn’t come from Crowley at all. Maybe the people of Rome just have a lot of love for their city. Maybe it’s Aziraphale's own love for all of God’s creation reflecting back at him.

What a load of bollocks.

There is only so much Aziraphale's mind will let him get away with. The one lie he can’t tell himself is that to hold and be held aren't the greatest feelings he’s ever experienced. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The island of Skopelos mentioned in the Greece passage is where Mamma Mia! was filmed. So that's the movie Aziraphale likes that I'm referring to up there!  
Speaking of which, [Ingthing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingthing/), who's betaing this work with a fine-tooth comb and should be credited with any coherency this has, wrote excellent [Mamma Mia! porn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21152606). Yes, you heard me right.


	4. Gaul, 4th and 5th century

They have a big row in 392 AD. One of those fights where, a week later, Aziraphale isn’t even sure what they were arguing about. He just knows he’s still furious.

When he tries to retrace his steps and figure out what happened, it doesn’t make any more sense. He’d been feeling a little on edge, uncomfortable with the way the Roman emperors were handling the switch to Christianity as a state religion. He should have been happy the humans were getting closer to worshipping Her (albeit with some major misconceptions), but the whole banning of religious figurines and prayers to other gods just didn’t sit right with him. 

Crowley had sauntered in to ask him whether he was happy about all the repression going on, then quickly changed his tune when he realised the angel wasn’t in a joking mood.

Aziraphale’s disposition had thawed a bit after a good meal and a few glasses of the marvelous wine Crowley had treated him to. Then they’d gone to the demon’s room and talked until the first rays of dawn peeked over the horizon. About everything that was going on in the world, about everything they’d been up to. Upon hearing of Aziraphale's assignments, Crowley had remarked that Aziraphale’s job didn’t seem all that complicated, then quickly added that tempting wasn’t all that hard either. He’d said the two of them were, probably, perfectly interchangeable. Aziraphale had felt a knot forming in his throat and had changed the subject, whining that the room was too cold just to push that strange prospect out of his mind.

Crowley had given him a very weird look and pulled out a scarf, and when Aziraphale had taken it he realised something was off – it felt different. The scarf didn’t feel as though it had been miracled into existence – rather, it felt entirely mortal, something the demon had picked and bought from a human.

And, perhaps – the angel had let his fingers graze over the fabric for a few, long moments – it was something Crowley had been keeping on him for a while? The scarf felt imbued with his love, as if it’d been soaking in it for quite some time.

It was a dark, a wine-like shade of red. Exactly the kind of colour the demon would often choose for himself. A tiny silver snake was embroidered on one corner.

Crowley had watched him, blinking exactly once, as Aziraphale stared down at it without actually putting it on, distracted by an epiphany at the edge of his consciousness, just out of reach.

And then Crowley had got angry. He’d grabbed the scarf out of Aziraphale's palm, shoving it into a pocket, out of sight. He'd snapped and told Aziraphale he wasn’t even cold, he was just bad at holding his alcohol.

Aziraphale hadn’t been drunk. A bit tipsy, sure. Still, his foul mood had returned immediately, and he’d asked the demon what the hell was wrong with him.

It had all gone downhill from there.

The next day, Aziraphale decides he needs a change of pace and to get away from Crowley for a bit. He picks a nice abbey in Vienne where he can retire for a while. Consecrated ground, no way the demon can follow him there.

The years he spends there are restless. He thinks, all the time, about the stupid red scarf and what it meant. He thinks of Crowley’s anger; he thinks about his own hesitance. It was just a scarf. It wasn’t just a scarf. But it was. Wasn’t it?

He becomes ravenous. He eats far too much, especially for an angel who’s trying to blend in among pious men dedicated to prayer and meditation. He grows restless. For a while, he even picks up tending to the gardens. Him, of all angels, working the land! There must be something seriously wrong with him, and Aziraphale is almost sure he knows what it is. But, once again, he doesn’t quite turn to look it in the face.

And then, one night, Crowley comes for him.

They haven’t seen each other in almost a century. Aziraphale is sweeping the floor of the tiny stone chapel, near its altar, when the heavy wooden door creaks open and a cloaked figure makes its way towards him, all the while spilling pained noises and gasps.

(Aziraphale doesn’t stop to think of what it is that makes him recognise Crowley immediately. The gasps? The dramatic entrance? The knowledge, deep, deep down, that the demon would always come to find him, that it was only a matter of time?)

The angel turns the other way and continues with his work.

“Oh, hey Aziraphale, fancy meeting you here.” Crowley calls, taking small, quick steps in his direction.

“What do you want?” Aziraphale hisses at him, trying very, very hard not to look as though he's happy to see him.

“Eh.” Crowley shrugs, feigning nonchalance though his voice is tight. “Got bored. The whole Fall of the Roman Empire business wasn’t as entertaining as anticipated.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “Of course you would say that.”

“I’m a demon, yes, I get it.” Crowley rolls his eyes as he begins circling him in stilted movements. “Believe me, it’d be rather hard to forget at the moment.”

“Oh, stop that.” The angel drops the broom and goes to Crowley, reaching for his arm. “Let’s get out.”

Crowley avoids him. “No no, this is quite alright. ‘Sides, you wouldn’t want to be seen with a demon anyway, would you?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes dart nervously to the door. It’s probably fine. Nobody heard that. Probably. “What are you talking about?” Crowley shrugs again, his dark cloak rising and falling with his shoulders. “Well, whatever it is you got into your head, Crowley, it’s nonsense. I’m just worried about your feet.”

That stops the demon’s bouncing around for a moment, which surely does not help his feet at all.

“Really,” he asks, unbelieving, and manages not to make it sound like a question at all.

“Yes, really.” This time, when Aziraphale reaches out, he successfully wraps his hand in the crook of the demon’s elbow. “Come on now.”

Crowley does take a couple steps towards the door, but then he turns around, puts a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, and kisses him tenderly.

Aziraphale’s knees, for whatever reason, buckle and almost give out from under him. 

The truth is – he’d forgotten. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be kissed by Crowley. The demon has a touch like starlight, blinking into existence sparks of fire in the complete darkness.

Aziraphale tries to push that thought out of his mind. What a bunch of sentimental nonsense, surely Crowley would laugh at him if he said any of that aloud, but oh – Crowley's lips are so soft, so warm, the angel closes his eyes and forgets they’re standing in front of the altar of the small chapel, almost literally under the eyes of the Almighty.

And then – Crowley’s lips budge up and down, and Aziraphale blinks, confused, and realises the demon’s rocking a little bit on his feet, which are most definitely still burning. Despite himself, Aziraphale giggles. This is ridiculous. They are ridiculous.

“Oh, good Lord.” He remarks, trying and failing to swallow down his big stupid grin. He tugs the demon towards the door again. “Out of here, right now. Let’s go.”


	5. Chang’An, 707 AD

Nobody would suspect that Aziraphale, reluctant Principality and fidgety Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, would have a tryst with a demon.

This is a good thing. It means they’re less likely to get caught.

“You’re about to say yes, angel,” murmurs the serpent behind him, hot breath against the shell of his ear and hands lost inside Aziraphale’s mint-green silk robe. “I can feel it.”

Aziraphale gasps when the demon pinches his nipple and his head falls back on Crowley’s shoulder.

His superiors – they all think he’s a spineless idiot. He knows they think he’s a spineless idiot. Sometimes, he thinks he’s a spineless idiot too.

But this plays in his favour when it comes to hiding this thing he has with Crowley. Crowley who, by the way, doesn’t think he’s a spineless idiot at all. Crowley, who considers him very clever. He doesn’t say so out loud but, whenever a problem arises, the first thing he does is look to Aziraphale, see if he has any ideas. When the angel gets frustrated by something, Crowley listens quietly, letting him vent. “You’ll figure it out,” he says, “you always do.” And then he gives Aziraphale a smile, as if – as if he had infinite trust in the angel’s ability to wriggle his way out of any sticky situation. There’s something else under there too. Something Crowley is waiting for him to figure out, something much bigger, something much more important. Aziraphale looks away before he can admit to himself what that something is.

Crowley also considers him very brave. The demon always sounds like he’s mocking Aziraphale a bit when he brings up giving away the flaming sword, but Aziraphale can detect the fondness and admiration underneath. And it’s not just the flaming sword – every time Aziraphale decided to spend time with Crowley in any capacity, the demon joked it was a small act of rebellion (and maybe it was). This did nothing to quell his feelings for Aziraphale. Angels can sense love, and Crowley’s continues to burn uncontrolled like a forest fire.

Perhaps that’s why Crowley is convinced he can talk Aziraphale into something as dangerous as an _arrangement_, where they would take turns doing both their jobs, saving them time and effort. But if they were found out…

“You can’t feel something that isn’t there.” Aziraphale manages to respond, although several seconds too late.

He’s going to say yes. In his heart of hearts, Aziraphale knows this. But he’ll deny it as long as he’s able to.

His body betrays him – or is it just more honest than he is? It shudders and melts under Crowley’s touch. Crowley is behind him, his hands sliding down Aziraphale’s sides to his hips. He grabs the angel roughly, keeps him still as he rubs against him, nudges Aziraphale’s head back like a cup of wine and drinks the moan from his lips. His hands travel lower and his fingers sink into Aziraphale’s soft thighs.

Crowley gives a low, approving hum. “I could spend days between your thighs.” He whispers to the angel’s throat.

Aziraphale’s heart skips a beat, and not just because he’s obviously interested in the idea – but also because the concept of _having_ days just to the two of them is mind-blowing. Days on end where they could do anything. Spend time in bed, yes (and on the couch, and on the desk, and on the carpet), but also just _be_ together, freely.

There’s a beautiful river outside Aziraphale’s temporary housing here in Chang’An. It’s lined with willow trees all along its banks. He can’t help but picture what it’d be like to take Crowley’s hand, lead him outside, sit by the water. Lay down on the grass, under the open sky, without a care in the world. Share a bottle of rice wine and laugh into the night.

It can’t happen. This is all they have, and it has to be enough. It’s already a lot more than they're allowed to have.

“Angel?” Crowley has (of course) noticed something is amiss. “What did I—”

“Oh no, Crowley, everything is all right.” Aziraphale turns around in his arms. “I was just feeling… grateful, I suppose.”

Crowley gives him a wry, affectionate smile from his red-painted lips. Aziraphale can’t help staring at them. “Careful.”

The angel nods. Yes, of course. They never talk about their feelings. They shouldn’t talk about their feelings.

Crowley crowds him against the window, nuzzling his neck. He slides Aziraphale’s robe off his shoulders. He’s gentler now. It’s better this way. It’s worse this way.

“Say yes,” he whispers, pressing against Aziraphale, the silk of his gown brushing against Aziraphale’s naked body. The fabric he wears has an apple leaf motif all over it. How unusual. How cheeky. It makes Aziraphale smile as a comforting warmth settles in his chest. “Just say yes, angel.”

“No.” He gasps when one of Crowley’s hands brushes against his erection. “It’s too dangerous,” he insists, but his resolve is crumbling. The problem with Crowley is that he’s not at all bad at his job. He’s frightfully good at tempting, when he sets his mind to it.

The demon takes his hand and steps backwards, guiding them to the floor. He sits down on plush pillows, guides Aziraphale to straddle him. The angel moves to sit in his lap, but Crowley stops him, having him upright on his knees instead.

Crowley buries his face into the angel’s hip, beginning to nip at the soft skin, leaving traces of lipstick everywhere. He doesn’t seem to care, just as he doesn’t seem to care about his pretty dress crumpling or about his long ginger hair getting messed up by Aziraphale’s fingers running through it.

Aziraphale reaches down, taking Crowley's chin between thumb and forefinger. He had such defined, beautiful red lips. Now his lipstick is all smeared, and he’s still devastatingly beautiful, maybe even more so. Blurred lines fit him so much better.

Aziraphale’s mind keeps spinning. Thankfully, Crowley helps, grounding him, nudging his hand away, grabbing his backside and guiding his cock straight into his mouth. Aziraphale slams his open palms into the wall behind Crowley’s head.

When Aziraphale gives in to the temptation and begins to thrust into his mouth, Crowley rewards him with a long, appreciative growl. Any useless, intrusive thoughts Aziraphale had flee his mind immediately.

And so he finally lets go, letting himself forget about anything not Crowley. Crowley’s long fingers, still anchored on his back holding him close, possessive. Crowley’s lipstick all over his skin. Crowley’s mouth, hot and demanding and relentless.

“Crowley, oh—” He swallows back a _fuck_, biting into his lower lip. He’s not being gentle about this, but Crowley keeps encouraging him. Crowley loves unravelling him, turning him into a creature of pure need, making him toss all his hesitations and worries out the window. When Aziraphale looks down, he realises he’s pushed Crowley’s head into the back of the wall. Even though the demon seems to be enjoying himself thoroughly, he spares a thought to miracle a soft pillow for his head. Crowley keeps going – his eyes half closed as he makes long, desperate sounds from his throat. Aziraphale loses track of time as he focuses on giving his corporation what it wants. And what it wants is to thrust in and out of Crowley’s mouth, again and again, withdrawing to the tip before returning inwards, rosy lips stretched around the root of his cock over and over. It’s obscene, it’s divine, neither of them can get enough. “Oh, _yes_, please…”

He can’t help himself from moaning, unrestrained and loud. Crowley holds him closer now, allowing him only fast, small thrusts, forcing Aziraphale to press his head hard into the pillow and keep it there. The demon sinks his nails into the small of his back and Aziraphale keens, finally coming in a rush of white-hot pleasure, suspended in a moment where nothing else exists, save for the two of them, save for this pleasure.

Crowley takes care of him. He pulls him down carefully, gathers him in his arms, lies him down until Aziraphale’s head is in his lap. When the angel opens his eyes again, he finds himself enveloped in a sea of red waves, the twin suns of Crowley’s eyes staring down at him with something he can’t not recognise as pure, unadulterated love.

Then, Crowley smirks, “you said yes.”

It takes Aziraphale a while to figure out what Crowley’s talking about and, when he does, he’s too blissed out to care. He was going to say yes from the very start — this was just a very, very pleasant way to get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with [beautiful, beautiful art](https://www.deviantart.com/infernalgenius/art/Yours-from-the-start-822210649) of Crowley with his smeared lipstick and Aziraphale loving on him 💕 CHECK IT OUT I'M CRYING.


	6. Aachen, 999 AD

The world descends into madness in 999 AD when a prophecy predicting the Apocalypse spreads like wildfire. The appearance of a comet in the skies over northern Europe terrifies the humans, convincing them they’re entering the end times (Crowley insists God is having a little too much fun with this little game of Hers – a whole _comet_, really?)

The two of them, of course, have inside information and they observe this collective psychosis from the sidelines. They’ve both been reassured by their respective head offices that it’s not yet time for the Antichrist, so all they can do is watch the humans as they frantically try to save their souls in what they think are their last moments. Many of them donate their jewels and riches to monasteries by the cartful, begging for forgiveness. Aziraphale is vaguely concerned for the state of their minds, and Crowley is thoroughly amused.

On the last day of December, Aziraphale wears his best clothes and takes part in the celebrations hosted by the current Holy Roman Emperor, Otto III, at his court in Aachen, Germany. He hasn’t seen Crowley in a while – the demon had gone to do some blessing and tempting in Rome for the both of them, and Aziraphale expects they won’t see one another for, at the very least, a few more weeks.

He’s having a perfectly pleasant time enjoying the good food and delightful company at the New Year’s Eve celebration. He’s engaged in a very interesting conversation with a wealthy merchant with a passion for ancient Greek texts he just met when he spots him.

It’s not uncommon for the two of them to bump into one another by accident. Whenever something interesting happens in the world, they’re there to see it, but this is possibly the first time Aziraphale has the chance to watch Crowley without the demon noticing.

He looks so handsome. His long red curls stand out against the black velvet of his cloak. The scarlet and silver of his garments peek out from underneath, and a sword hangs by his hip.

The merchant he’s talking to notices Aziraphale sighing dreamily and follows his gaze. He smiles and takes his leave, smiling a little wider when the angel doesn’t even notice him slipping away into the crowd. Ah, romantic love.

Aziraphale watches Crowley laugh and feels warmth rushing to his cheeks. It actually takes him a few minutes to realise the demon is talking and laughing with a beautiful woman – and that gives him an abrupt, clenching feeling in his stomach. He elects not to name it.

That’s when he realises all at once that they’ve never discussed whether either of them could take other lovers. He brings a hand to his mouth, hiding a horrified gasp. He’d assumed… oh, Lord. He’d assumed Crowley wouldn’t be interested in humans. Surely not in other demons. And definitely not in other angels. He’s foolishly assumed Crowley wouldn’t want anyone else but him. Oh. _Oh_.

But it’s not as if they’d ever talked about it. They don’t _talk_ about these things. The complete silence on certain topics is the foundation upon which they’ve built this whatever-it-is they’re having.

The woman Crowley is talking to – she’s lithe and pretty. Perfectly poised. She has that particular spark in her eyes that signals she’s clever. Surely not one to panic just because they’re nearing the end of the century. Surely not a human Crowley would laugh at. Surely not a person to stutter over her words, hesitate, or wriggle anxiously when her tall, confident, patronising boss talks to her.

Aziraphale steps back. He tries some wine; it tastes sour and metallic on his tongue. He’s lost his appetite, too. He stumbles on his own feet as his head spins.

Oh, this is an ugly feeling (he won’t name it, he won’t). Poison ivy spreading through his body, turning over each of his insecurities and grabbing onto them, feeding on them, wrapping around his throat.

He can’t breathe.

He rushes outside, barely noticing he’s knocked over a cup and the noise had everyone turning to look.

It’s better, out in the courtyard. The freezing cold helps his nerves. The snow falls steadily, silently, making the world softer and quieter. He looks for a secluded corner, finds a stone bench under the porch where the snow can’t reach. He sits down, his (completely decorative) sword clanking against the stone.

His heart rate slows back down. He closes his eyes tightly, trying to get a hold of himself. It’s fine. It’s fine, it’s fine. Crowley can do whatever he wants. He has every right to do whatever he wants. As long as he’s happy, Aziraphale shouldn’t get in his way. He won’t get in his way. It's unreasonable of him to assume he’d be the only one Crowley would take to bed.

He tries to take comfort in the heavy blanket of love Crowley constantly swaddles him in. He’s taken by a new wave of nausea when he pictures the same love embracing someone else. Oh, no. He can’t do this. It’s not fine. Aziraphale breathes in, he breathes out.

He has to do it. For Crowley’s sake. For himself. Since what he has with Crowley cannot be defined, this ugly feeling cannot be named either. It can’t exist, anyway. Because, if it did… things have become much more serious that he thought.

When he hears the sound of steps coming closer, Aziraphale doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. He tries for a weak laugh. “That was awfully rude of me, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, nobody will think much of it,” Crowley replies, sitting down next to him. “The abbot’s clothes caught fire just as you were leaving. What a lucky coincidence, eh?”

Aziraphale gives a shaky out breath, turning to him. Crowley looks every bit the strong, courageous knight young maidens dream about. No wonder he’d have other lovers. Who wouldn’t want him?

“I suppose I was very lucky indeed.” He mutters, quietly.

Crowley gives him a long once-over, expression unreadable behind his dark glasses. “Want to warm up a little, angel?”

“Oh, no, thank you, I’m not up for drinks at the moment.”

“S’not what I was talking about.” Crowley stands up, a hand on the hilt of his sword. “You still know how to use one of these, I assume?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinks. “I don’t know… it’s been a long time.”

“Come on, Aziraphale. It’s like riding a bicycle.” (What’s a bicycle?) “I’m so bored. And I know we’ll find the training room empty tonight.”

Aziraphale sighs but stands up. “Where is this room?”

Crowley grins at him, making the angel’s heart do an uncomfortable flip, then leads the way back inside.

Even though Aziraphale feigns nonchalance for three whole minutes, Crowley does not seem surprised in the slightest when he asks, “what about the young lady you were conversing with? Was she boring too?”

“Nah, not at all.” Crowley shrugs. “Just unlucky.”

“Unlucky?”

“Mm-hm.” The demon guides them down a flight of stairs. “She’s in love with a novice.”

Aziraphale almost stumbles on his feet. The awful, gnawing feeling flees his chest all at once. “A-a novice? A _nun_?”

“A nun in training, as I understand it.”

“Oh dear. That’s awfully complicated.” He follows Crowley into a big, empty room. Its walls are lined with weapons. “Is she… I mean, is it mutual?”

“That’s the problem.” The demon picks up two training swords and passes one over to Aziraphale. “It is.”

“Well, love is a wonderful thing.” Aziraphale turns the blunt sword in his hands. Oh, yes, he remembers exactly how this works. “For humans, I mean. They have such brief lives… it’s good for her that her love is requited.”

“Is it?” Crowley gestures for him to come forward. “Seems to me that it would have been a lot easier if it wasn’t. She could have moved on. But if she knows it’s mutual… well. She’ll never give up on her.”

Aziraphale swallows, looks away. “No use thinking about it, anyway. One does not always have a choice in these matters.”

“Quite right.” The demon replies faintly.

Aziraphale easily falls into his old fighting stance. Crowley lunges.

At times, the angel is acutely reminded that his friend was once a snake. This is one of those times. Crowley has no formal training, and he always seems on the verge of tipping over when he’s simply walking. Sparring makes this even worse.

He’s ferocious, swinging down hit after hit, and surely with a human he would have landed at least one of them. Not with Aziraphale. Aziraphale blocks them all. He notices how Crowley isn’t surprised in the least – then again, he reasons, the demon wouldn’t have come at him with a sword, even such a blunt one, if he weren’t absolutely sure he couldn’t hurt him.

Aziraphale lets it drag. Crowley swings wildly from every angle, getting stuck against the hilt of Aziraphale’s sword again and again. By the time the demon is panting, the angel hasn’t taken a single step back.

“Take me seriously, angel,” He growls at him, breathless. “Attack.”

Now, Aziraphale doesn’t like fighting. He can do it, he’s been created to do it, but he doesn’t like it. He’s spent the last few thousand years trying to forget all about it, but it seems that his soul remembers every motion. Sparring with Crowley has a whole different meaning. It’s almost… fun. Neither of them will get hurt, and it releases some long pent-up tension.

Crowley smirks wide when he sees Aziraphale’s getting into it. “Come on, angel, you can do better than this.”

Aziraphale laughs at Crowley’s brazenness, seeing as things aren't going too well for the demon. He’s quickly losing ground. It’s short work, for the angel, to take step after step forward, forcing Crowley back to defend himself and never giving him the chance for another offensive.

“Yes!” Crowley shouts, and their pace becomes frantic. Aziraphale too is breathless now, sweating under his heavy clothes, but he's grinning. When he finally has Crowley cornered, and the back of the demon's head hits the wall, Crowley cheats. One small demonic miracle, and the training sword goes flying out of Aziraphale’s grip.

Quick as a flash, the angel unsheathes his real sword and brings its flat edge up to Crowley’s throat. “Cheater,” he tries to scold, even as his smile gives him away. He sees something flashing in the darkness between their bodies and sees the hidden dagger Crowley has pulled out from his clothes with a smirk.

If they were true enemies, this would be it. This would be the moment where one of them would drop all pretenses, reveal their camaraderie had been an act all along, and discorporate the other. Aziraphale, who’s never not anxious over everything and anything, doesn’t find a smidge of worry in his heart.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley moves slowly, wrapping his fingers around Aziraphale’s hand, the one that’s holding the sword to his throat. “I don’t have any other _arrangements_, alright?”

Aziraphale’s thoughts stumble one after the other. _Thank you_, is what he wants to say. _Thank you for telling me. Thank you for trying to guess what I was upset about. Thank you for getting it right. Thank you for telling me plainly, but still with plausible deniability._

He averts his eyes, but feels his face heating up. “Obviously,” is what he says instead, dropping the sword. “As I am the only angel currently stationed on Earth.”

Crowley grins with half his mouth, tosses the dagger the way Aziraphale's sword went, and leans down to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Aziraphale finds out Crowley has a praise kink.


	7. London, 1605

“You’ve done a great job. Hamlet was a success.” Aziraphale tells Crowley, stroking his hair. The demon has just finished undressing them and has him down on the bed by his side, skin to skin. 

“Shut up,” Crowley replies, burying his face in the crook of the angel's neck and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. But his voice trembles the slightest bit, and Aziraphale decides to test a theory he’s been turning over in his mind for a long time now.

“It’s true. You’ve done so well for me, Crowley. I’m very grateful.” The demon _whimpers_, rutting against his thigh.

Aziraphale gathers his long, coppery hair in a fist, wrapping it around his fingers once before giving an experimental little pull. Crowley’s lips leave his skin with an obscene, lovely sound. Aziraphale pulls harder.

He props himself up and leads Crowley to lie flat on his back. The demon is panting already, though they’ve barely done anything, staring at him wild-eyed. Aziraphale knows he’s on the right track, and this new knowledge fills him with wonder. What else can he do?

“Crowley, would you be good for me?” Aziraphale whispers in his ear. He takes Crowley’s hand, guides it down between the demon’s own legs. “Would you show me how you do it yourself?”

Crowley breathes in sharply, purses his lips together, hesitates for a few moments. Then he gives a short nod. He interlaces his fingers with Aziraphale’s and closes both their hands around his cock, setting a quick, shallow pace. Almost immediately, his back arches off the bed, his lips parting around a breathless moan, and Aziraphale drinks in every detail.

“Beautiful.” The word escapes him before he can stop it. He’s thought Crowley was beautiful so many times in the last five millennia, it was inevitable he’d say it aloud sooner or later. Crowley keens at the compliment, his toes curling and his hand speeding up and — and Aziraphale slows him back down.

“Angel…” Crowley breathes out, unfocused gaze turning in Aziraphale’s direction. Aziraphale smiles and keeps stroking him with their joined hands. Slow, firm, twisting a bit at the end in the way Crowley loves.

Crowley doesn’t say anything more after that. Well – nothing that makes sense, at least. Aziraphale keeps the pace slow but steady, continues lavishing praise on him with soft whispers, the occasional kiss on the cheek. Crowley’s face is getting warmer and warmer with every word. _This is wonderful, Crowley. You are doing splendidly. You are always so good to me. Thank you._ He says, and they’ll both pretend he’s talking about sex. _Thank you, thank you, thank you—_

Crowley comes within their hands with a broken sob. Aziraphale has never seen him like this before – wild and lost, completely beyond coherent speech. Oh, he loves it.

He waves away the mess and strokes Crowley’s hair again. His long, beautiful hair, which gleams red in the candlelight. Crowley sits up as soon as he’s able to. He slides off the bed in a languid motion and pulls the angel towards him. Aziraphale would ask what he’s doing, but he's quite sure he wouldn’t get an answer.

What Crowley wants is for him to sit at the edge of the bed, legs spread open, so that he can kneel between his knees and take his cock into his mouth in one fell swoop. What he wants is for Aziraphale’s hands to keep stroking his hair, which he communicates by taking them and bringing them back to his head. What he wants – probably – is for Aziraphale to keep talking to him like that, though he doesn’t ask.

“Oh, my dear…” Aziraphale breathes. Crowley is a _sight_ with untamed ginger locks sticking to his face, golden eyes half-lidded, his wet lips stretched around Aziraphale’s cock. And if, generally speaking, he has a very precise technique for this – this time he doesn’t. This time he’s hungry and sloppy and when he starts drooling a bit from the corner of his lips Aziraphale just about loses it. He’s not exactly sure what he says after that. Maybe he breaks the second commandment several times _(oh, God, Crowley, oh my God)_, maybe he says things he would never let himself say otherwise _(you’re wonderful, this is perfect)_, maybe he does both at the same time more than once _(Crowley, Crowley, oh, dear Lord, oh, you’re stunning, oh, Crowley…)_.

He stops the demon just before he can spill inside his mouth. Crowley pulls off of his cock, resting a cheek against his inner thigh, looking up at him, maybe not even really seeing him. He makes a needy noise, his eyes yellow from corner to corner, pleading. He licks his wet lips and Aziraphale has to hold himself back with a firm squeeze of his hand around his own cock.

He knows what Crowley wants. He was planning on making him wait some more, keep him down on the floor a while longer… but he’s aching too, too much to ignore.

He pulls Crowley back up on the bed with him and the demon immediately, shamelessly positions himself for him – hips up, face pressed into the mattress, body ready and open for Aziraphale with a quick miracle. He plants his hands on either side of his head, bracing himself, and glances at Aziraphale from over his shoulder.

God, Aziraphale is so thankful he could stop and say a prayer of thanks right now. 

Better not.

He gets up on his knees, grabs Crowley by the hips, and enters him with a low groan – too lost in it to hesitate, to pull back, to be self-conscious. There’s nothing else, now – just the need for release.

Later, as the demon sleeps, Aziraphale runs fingers through his sweat-matted locks, untangling them. He’ll make sure to compliment Crowley much more often from that day on.


	8. Versailles, 1655

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has to be dedicated to [Josey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoseyxNeko), who asked me to include a masquerade scene <strike>without knowing how weak I am to prompts</strike>, and also to the [Ineffable Temptations](https://discord.gg/VwD6kMa) server as a whole for cheerleading this fic!

Technically, he hasn’t been asked by head office to visit the court of the Sun King. But gossip travels fast, and everyone in London has been talking about it, to the point where Aziraphale decided he had to see it for himself. When he arrives at Versailles, the sun is setting and it looks as though the whole building is on fire in the orange twilight. This ominous vision aside, he has to admit it’s a stupendous residence.

He learns quickly that the people living inside aren’t quite as pleasant. He’s surprised to realise he can deal with them easily: smiling faces who’ll gossip behind backs as soon as they’re out of earshot are no novelty to him. They’re never openly hostile; this is a reign of backhanded compliments and passive-aggressive remarks. Still, a few of the members of the court are good, kind people, and the angel makes friends easily.

When the King announces a masquerade ball, Aziraphale is very excited. Attendees are required to wear a costume befitting the theme of woodland creatures. Extravagance is encouraged, although Aziraphale has a hunch there are many unspoken rules the guests are supposed to infer.

His friends Armand de Bourbon (who will go as a bear) and Marie Angélique (who will be a squirrel) help him out. They spend many hours carefully choosing every detail, as is customary for these occasions. 

Overall, he’s pretty pleased with the end result when the night of the ball arrives. His costume is not overly outlandish in shape or colour, but he did choose the best fabrics available, and the craftsmanship is exquisite. It fits perfectly with the theme, and when Marie Angélique takes his arm and leads him into the ballroom, he stands up straight, confident and excited.

It's a shame that the first person who approaches him is Armand de Gramont, wearing a stunning butterfly costume, with wide iridescent wings behind his back. He speaks in a heavily accented English as he looks Aziraphale up and down. “A fawn, is it?”

“Monsieur,” Marie Angélique gives Aziraphale’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “It is a deer.”

Aziraphale resists the temptation to adjust the small brown ears on the top of his head. The white lace mask that covers the area around his eyes is not quite long enough to hide his mouth, so he pushes away the urge to purse his lips in annoyance.

“A doe, you mean.” The man gestures to the space above Aziraphale’s head. “Otherwise, he would need a big set of horns over his head, wouldn’t he?”

“They’re called antlers, actually,” Aziraphale corrects him with a smile, gently but sharply. “Horns are the ones on the heads of cattle and the likes.”

Armand waves away the objection. “A good choice, either way. It wouldn’t have been entertaining to see you getting stuck in a chandelier,” he says with a wide, nasty grin on his face. As he takes his leave, he adds, “have a pleasant night, my friends.”

Marie Angélique gives Aziraphale an embarrassed smile and they continue into the room.

The night improves, little by little. The food is some of the best he’s ever had. Aziraphale doesn’t participate in the dancing, but he finds it enchanting. He’s introduced to new people, and the conversation flows easily between them – maybe because they’re all inebriated, maybe because the masks make everything more exciting. Before Aziraphale knows it, there’s a small group of curious listeners around him who have come to talk to the visiting Englishman.

He is just talking about his recent interest in the printed word and how he thinks London might have what it takes to become the most important cultural hub of the world when – a flash of red hair appears in the crowd. His breath catches in his throat. 

“London is overrated,” says a plump woman dressed as a woodpecker, currently perched on Aziraphale’s arm. “You should stay here for a while, you would change your mind.”

“Yes,” agrees a thin, young man disguised as a hare. “We would love to hear more of your stories, they are so very interesting.”

“Oh, hasn’t he told you?” A familiar voice behind them says in perfect English. Crowley’s voice. The crowd parts for him like the Red Sea, and he steps forward. He too has little fuzzy ears on his head, pointy and red. He’s a fox, Aziraphale realises with a start. His golden eyes are partially hidden behind a black, silky mask. “He can’t stay here long.”

“Why ever not?” Asks the marmot man to Aziraphale’s left.

“Yes, why?” Aziraphale asks too, faintly.

“His beautiful wife, of course. He could never leave her.” The demon declares, an exaggerated tone of anguish in his voice. Crowley has made his way to the angel, dislodging the woman on Aziraphale's arm to take him by the bend of his elbow. “They’re such a lovely couple. I have never seen anyone more in love, truly.” Before Aziraphale knows it, Crowley is leading him away from the others. “Actually, we haven’t seen each other in a while, we have some catching up to do, you understand. Au revoir!” He shouts over his shoulder as they head towards the closest balcony.

As soon as they’re outside, Aziraphale takes his arm back from the demon's grip. “What in the world are you doing?”

“What?” Crowley asks with a sideways tilt of his head, eyeing him from behind his dark mask. “Thought I was doing you a favour, mon ange.”

“A favour how, exactly?” Aziraphale crosses his arms over his chest.

“Well, they were all a bit _too_ interested in you, weren’t they? Woodpecker there was straight feeling you up.”

“Oh, she was not.” Aziraphale rebuts, although it is true that she let her hands wander a little.

“And Monsieur Hare was about to lead you to a dark corner and jump you.”

“Now you’re being ludicrous,” the angel replies, although he’s starting to doubt himself. They were all a tad too affectionate, and it is well known here that many affairs occur behind closed doors, but… well, Crowley must be mistaken. 

Maybe.

Either way, it’s true that they haven’t met in a while, and Aziraphale has missed him. If he's to be honest, he doesn’t mind spending a while on this balcony here with him at all, rather than being surrounded by random strangers in costumes.

“I’m not. You should be more aware of the way people look at you,” Crowley says, taking a step forward. Aziraphale takes two steps back.

“Which is?” He asks, an eyebrow raised.

“Well.” Crowley grins and – good Lord, there really is a sharp contrast between the relentless, scorching pull of attraction between them and the quiet pleasantness of the chatter in the ballroom. 

Aziraphale takes another step back, but there’s only wall behind him now. “And what about this wife of mine? Beautiful, you said?”

“Hmm.” Crowley closes the distance between them in a few steps. He doesn’t touch him – yet. “But ill-tempered. Very ill-tempered. Capricious woman, hates being left behind.”

“Oh, but I’ll be back.” Aziraphale replies, playing along. “And what else? I will need to know, in… in case they ask me about her.”

Crowley purses his lips, thinks it over for a moment. “I have to say, I’m quite sure she doesn’t care much for all those people buzzing around you.”

“Ah, the jealous type, is she?” Aziraphale reaches out, catching the black frills around Crowley’s neck between his thumb and forefinger.

“Not quite. She knows you don’t even see them, not in _that_ way.” Crowley places his hand on the wall, just to the left of Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale feels blood rushing to his cheeks. “Still, it’s annoying they think they stand a chance.” Crowley bends down as if to kiss him but sidesteps at the last moment, burying his face in the side of Aziraphale’s neck instead, making the angel gasp. “But they don’t know you, do they? They don’t actually know you.”

Aziraphale’s head spins. The smell of Crowley’s skin, the low growl of his voice, the echo of the words he carelessly threw out earlier as he was taking him away from the crowd: _they’re such a lovely couple. I have never seen anyone more in love_. It's dangerous ground. It might crack under their feet and swallow them whole if they’re not cautious.

“W-what do you mean?” He asks, his voice trembling.

“Hmm, they think you’re so prim and proper.” Crowley puts his other palm on Aziraphale’s chest, slides it down, over his stomach and between his legs. There’s no way the angel can hide how hard he is. Crowley gives an amused chuckle when he cups him in his hand, and Aziraphale’s face burns. “They don’t know how hot-blooded you really are.”

Aziraphale is about to say something, but the reply dies on his lips as Crowley begins to stroke him through the expensive fabric of his breeches. “Crowley…”

“Just look at this,” Crowley growls into his ear, giving his cock a light squeeze. Aziraphale’s eyes flutter closed. “You’re lucky I know you so well. And I know…” The angel hears a ripping noise as all the clothing keeping his cock from Crowley’s fingers split apart. The cold air hits his skin, the tear starting a few inches below his navel and going along the centre seam to his backside.

“Crowley!”

“_I know—_” With a grunt, and perhaps with a small miracle, Crowley is lifting him off the ground. Aziraphale promptly wraps his legs around his waist, even as he makes a noise of protest. They’re out in the open, for goodness’ sake! Anyone – from above, from below, from the ballroom, could appear at any moment and see them. “How easily tempted you are.”

The fear of being found out chokes him, but then he feels Crowley’s cock, already hard and insistent against him, begging to enter. And even as he curses himself for being so stupid and really as easily tempted as Crowley says, Aziraphale opens himself up for him, slicking his entrance, promising to himself he’ll make this quick – he has to make this quick. This is complete madness.

Crowley pushes in and Aziraphale smothers a moan against the back of his own hand. It's madness, but he couldn't wait one more second. He needs him _now_.

“I know what you like.” Proving his point, Crowley finds his angle easy as anything, sliding out and back in again. “Tell me, angel.” His words are accompanied by short, shallow thrusts, erasing all logical thought from Aziraphale’s mind with each. “Tell me I know what you like.”

“I… yes, yes, you do, yes.” Aziraphale replies between breaths, quite sure he’d say anything at all in this moment. Either way, it’s true – Crowley does know him, all too well. No one else could convince him to let himself be fucked against a wall, on a balcony, just outside a room full of nosy people and under the open sky. Thing is, Crowley didn’t really have to convince him at all, he just had to stand close enough and reach out. Aziraphale is sure the demon has made it so that nobody will think to walk in (well, walk _out_) on them. It’s just what Crowley does, always taking care of things for him.

_(They’re such a lovely couple. I have never seen anyone more in love.)_

Reality blurs around him as he fills himself with Crowley – the feeling of him pressed against and inside him, the smell of him, the sound of his voice, of his ragged breaths, the softness of his hair between Aziraphale’s fingers, the taste of his skin.

Crowley reaches for his cock, trapped between their bodies, and begins pumping – this, too, he does just the way Aziraphale likes, fast and tight and a bit rough. Aziraphale decides it’s only fair to give Crowley what he wants – and he’s just enough of a bastard to want to drive him wild. “You—you do know what I like, _oh_, Crowley – _only you_ know what I like.”

“Fuck, angel.” Crowley groans against his throat, speeding up, and Aziraphale knows beyond a sliver of a doubt that he’s just said the right thing.

It seems to be no time at all before Aziraphale spills all over their beautiful costumes and Crowley follows suit a moment later, pulsing hot inside him until he’s finished. Aziraphale holds on to the feeling for a moment longer, the sensation of being full of him, one with him.

_(I have never seen anyone more in love.)_

Slowly, he begins to untangle his limbs from Crowley’s body, and the demon lowers him back to the ground. A snap of his fingers and Aziraphale’s clothes are in tip-top shape, mended and clean.

Crowley reaches up to straighten the deer ears on his head.

They look at each other for a moment, through their masks – just for affirmation. Aziraphale can see it in Crowley’s eyes, he does not regret what they just did. And Crowley must be seeing the same thing, because he grins, wide and unguarded.

Then, he takes Aziraphale’s hand and kisses his knuckles. “Monsieur Biche[1], pardon the interruption. I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your night.”

Aziraphale has learned, little by little, that Crowley has a certain affinity for theatrical gestures both big and small, such as this one. Always the hero of his own epic.

“Monsieur Renard[2], thank you for bringing me news of my, um, dear wife.” Oh, he’s getting all soppy, he can hear it in his own voice. He can’t help it. “Please, do tell her, if you see her, that I will return shortly.”

“At your service,” Crowley replies, letting go of his hand, flashing him a beautiful, complicated smile that's a little wry at the edges.

The rest of the night, Aziraphale supposes, is quite lovely. He doesn’t actually remember any of it. After his encounter with the demon on the balcony everything is a bit of a blur.

A week later, he decides it’s time to go back to London. Upon parting, Marie Angélique and Armand gift him with an uncommon piece of jewellery: a simple gold chain with a little round pendant at the end.

“An amulet,” Marie Angélique explains, sheepishly. “For luck.”

“For luck?” Aziraphale asks.

“For star-crossed love.” Armand explains. _Ah_, Aziraphale thinks, _gossip here travels faster than in London_. _They must have seen me leaving the ballroom with Crowley._ “You are an honourable man, my friend. I do not believe you would abandon your wife, not even if you wanted to. We imagine it must be very painful to deny yourself your heart’s true desires.”

Aziraphale closes his fist around the amulet, biting into his lip as he looks down on it. Armand is right and he isn’t at the same time. Aziraphale is not honourable. His loyalty is very much compromised. But, at the same time, he is denying himself what his heart truly wants. He is denying to even listen to what his heart truly wants.

He's not winning and he’s not losing. He’s suspended in a limbo where he can have some of what he wants but not all of it, deepening the black hole of his desires the more he indulges.

“I won’t forget you,” he tells them, even though he knows they cannot imagine the weight that promise carries for an immortal being. It’s a long life. So full of people, and yet so lonely at the same time.

[1] Doe, in French.

[2] Fox, in French.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [small note from my beta that I couldn't resist including:]
> 
> Crowley, who can literally sense lust: Hey, those humans you were just talking with? They didn't have very innocent intentions.  
Aziraphale: Maybe not everyone wanted to jump my bones!  
Crowley, who also wants to jump Aziraphale's bones: ...
> 
> also [LOOK AT THIS CUTE ART](https://twitter.com/kitkatinahat/status/1195428146339696640) of them in their silly costumes I!!! lost!!! my!!! shit!!! I love this!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉


	9. London, 1888

1888 is a rough year.

Aziraphale has decided, a few bottles in, that the world is swaying too much, and decides to help himself by sitting on the floor instead. The floor in question happens to belong to a certain Mr Wilde, who has quickly become a dear friend of his in recent years. Just a friend and nothing else, despite what some might say about them.

“Oscar, my dear…” Aziraphale laments from his spot on the floor, waving some sheets of paper – a manuscript – in the vague direction of his friend. Oscar is lying languidly on the sofa, completely at ease, smoking a gold-tipped cigarette. “You’re not going to put this in, are you?”

“Whatever are we talking about?” Oscar gives him the closed-lip smile of someone who knows perfectly well what they’re talking about.

“This bit, this…” He thinks about reading it out loud, but gives up before even trying. He passes the papers over to the man, pointing to a passage.

> _The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful._

Oscar gives him his best Cheshire cat impression. “I knew it had to be this one, with you.” Aziraphale groans in response. “But I believe it is true, and therefore I will publish it. Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry at all,” the angel whines. “You shouldn’t use your friends as inspiration for your works, that’s dishonest.”

“Ah! But is there truly anything more honest than that?” He exhales a puff of smoke, then sits up, staring down at the angel. “Give in, Fell. Truly, you’ll feel better. Take my advice for once. I’m worried about you.”

Aziraphale takes a moment to push the alcohol out of his bloodstream, although he still pretends to be a bit dizzy for appearances’ sake. “I have had enough of your teasing for one day. I’m leaving.” He stands up, his knees not quite as wobbly as he shows them to be, picking up his coat and hat and making for the door.

“You’re going to see him, aren’t you?” 

Aziraphale stops in his tracks, lowers his gaze to his shoes. “What if I am?”

He can hear the smile in Oscar’s voice. “I wholeheartedly approve, of course. Although he really must be a wicked creature to keep you in his orbit for so long without ever pulling you in.”

“He’s not. That’s not…” Aziraphale thinks back to the fight he had with Crowley over holy water in St James's Park. Who was at fault? He’s not even sure anymore. “He is a good person, really. He just pretends not to be, at times.”

Before Oscar can reply, Aziraphale is out the door. He makes his way downstairs and leaves his friend’s residence, braving a snowstorm that has enveloped the whole of London.

He decides to walk all the way to Crowley’s house, even though it takes him more than an hour. By the time he makes it there, he’s had to use more than one small miracle to keep his fingers, toes and nose from freezing.

Inside, Crowley is sleeping peacefully. As he has been for the past twenty-six years.

“I loathe this, have I told you already?” Aziraphale says, dropping his hat on a small table by the bedroom door. With a snap of his fingers, he takes care of a bunch of things all at once, as has become habit: he dusts the place, waters the plants, and changes the sheets of Crowley’s bed without dislodging him. The demon is snoring softly, as he always is, his warm blankets all the way up to his ears.

With a long sigh, Aziraphale sits down and compiles Crowley’s paperwork for him. It should be hard. It isn’t. They’ve been doing each other’s jobs for too long to not know how to do this, and their forms are eerily similar. So the angel writes down all the bad deeds he’s done in Crowley’s name, how long each project took, and how many new souls are ripe for Hell to take (‘debatable’, he writes in that space, but _none_ would be the true answer).

When he’s done, he sits in a chair next to Crowley’s bed. Watching the demon’s sleeping figure makes his heart ache. He thinks about the passage Oscar will publish in his novel. Can a soul really grow sick with longing for the things it forbids itself? Crowley’s red hair is sunned out in a tangled mess on his pillows, his dark eyelashes just brushing his duvet, and he’s stunning as ever.

“Why do you torture me so?” He murmurs, but of course, Crowley has no answer for him. Still, Aziraphale has a sneaking suspicion that if he were to apologise and agree to get the holy water, the demon would wake in the blink of an eye.

But he won't apologise. Aziraphale wasn’t wrong to deny Crowley something so dangerous. Something that could wipe him out of existence forever. He won’t apologise for something he isn’t sorry for.

(And yes, Aziraphale shouldn’t have called it ‘fraternising’. But he got scared. He was absolutely terrified by the idea of losing Crowley forever. He won’t apologise for that, either.)

He sits in silence for a while, gathering his thoughts. Maybe he ruined everything. Maybe they’re not even friends anymore. Crowley, somehow, has found a way to be there and, at the same time, close himself off completely. He’s made himself unreachable in his dead sleep and Aziraphale is left alone, tormented by doubts. He can talk to the sleeping demon all he wants. No reply will come.

When he stands up again, the angel brushes Crowley’s hair away from his forehead, leans down to leave a kiss on his cheek. “It’s been terribly lonely without you around causing trouble, my dear.”

He gazes at Crowley’s sleeping figure, the affection he holds in his chest for the demon flaring white and hot. He tries to tell himself that someday soon Crowley will wake up and the two of them will reconcile. He hasn’t lost him. Crowley wouldn’t abandon him forever.

“Let me be clear that I don’t care one bit for your dramatics, you silly old snake,” he says, softly, after a few moments. “But I won’t let your superiors find out about this, if I can help it.” He draws Crowley’s symbol in the air with two fingers and the paperwork disappears from the room. “Well, I’ll be off. Sleep well, my dear.”

As he closes the door behind him, reinstating with a wave of his hand a protective spell over the house, he misses the contented expression on Crowley’s face, smiling into his pillow as he sleeps, dreaming tender dreams about his angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters to go, and they're mostly porn wrapped in feelings. I'M SO EXCITED YOU GUYS. I can't wait!!


	10. London, 20th century

There are days when, as soon as night falls, Aziraphale can’t take it anymore.

He takes his clothes off in a rush, turns on the cold water, and takes the iciest shower he can manage. It’s not enough.

He huddles under the covers, shaking. It’s been so long, it’s just been so long. He had never needed this before, and then Crowley had touched his wings in Eden and something had awakened in him: something dark and hungry and needy.

Crowley has been asleep for sixty years now. Aziraphale has surrounded himself with friends. He’s doing alright. But oh, nobody has touched him in a very long time – he won’t allow it. There’s only one entity whose touch he craves, and it would be unfair to any human to drag them into this mess.

It’s been so long, too long, he’s starving for something he can’t get. His mind floods with all the memories he’s collected for thousands of years. The nape of Crowley’s neck, tall and elegant. His beautiful hands, his long, graceful fingers, how they wrap around his cock, how they know exactly what to do with him. Crowley's back, the long line of his spine, his narrow waist. His buttocks, small and muscular. The hot cleft between them, how he lets Aziraphale sink into it and begs for more. His collarbones – _oh, God Almighty,_ his collarbones. The perfect ridges to bite. His nipples, soft and dark and delightful to toy with. The whole of his chest, so different from Aziraphale’s: so thin, so frail, the ribs beneath smooth skin like keys of a piano for him to play. Crowley’s cock – the thought alone could send Aziraphale straight to Hell, but he wishes he could choke himself on it once more, take it into his throat, press his lips to the coarse red hair at its base. Grab Crowley roughly by the hips as he does, pressing his thumbs into his flesh with the intention to bruise. The yielding insides of his thighs, his endless legs. The arches of his feet, how Crowley curls his toes when he’s about to come.

God, Aziraphale misses all of him so much it’s driving him mad. He’s starving and nothing can sate this hunger. This is nothing like when he holed himself up in an abbey in Gaul for almost a century. Back then, he could have decided to leave the abbey at any moment – now it’s not a choice. He’s at Crowley’s mercy, and he hates the idea as much as it excites him.

He gives up, takes his heavy, aching cock in his hand, and strokes. His thoughts turn filthier yet, if that’s at all possible – Crowley over him, biting into his shoulder, hauling him onto his cock again and again, making him scream in pain and pleasure. Crowley beneath him, Aziraphale’s cock in his beautiful mouth, moaning with every thrust. Crowley, completely naked, on display for him on Aziraphale’s bed, legs spread wide, begging to be taken. No, better yet – Crowley in his lap, whining that Aziraphale is completely dressed, desperately rubbing against him until the angel decides to touch him, take him apart until he shakes in his hands.

Aziraphale peaks with a strangled shout, the dirty rush of his thoughts coming to a screeching halt.

He breathes in and out. He cleans himself. He curls up tighter under the covers. He burns with shame. Oh, if anyone knew…

He lies in the dark, his only company the uncertainty of what’s in store for him.

In the end, there are no apologies from either of them – they both still believe they’re in the right. But, when Crowley wakes up, he comes and rescues him anyway. He burns his feet one more time for Aziraphale to save him from the Nazi spies. They're still friends. With a single demonic intervention, Crowley manages to silence 80 years of anxieties in one fell swoop. And then – and then he saves Aziraphale’s books.

And Aziraphale stands there, dumbstruck, the bag of precious books in his hand and the undeniable knowledge in his heart that this is _love_. Stubborn love, indelible love, impossible-to-shoo-away love. Love born the first moment they met that has grown through the ages, through thick and thin. The holiest kind of love – the kind poets write about, pure and strong and selfless. The most sinful kind of love – where they endlessly consume each other, want each other, and where their feelings, as strong as they are, sometimes get the better of them and make them act like utter fools.

This is love, and it took eighty years of loneliness and a small demonic miracle to wipe away any doubt from Aziraphale's mind, annihilating all the anxious voices in his head that demand he suppress this feeling.

He sits in the Bentley, looks up at Her (did She mean for this to happen, did She make them for each other, did She send him Crowley as a guiding light), his hands are shaking.

“Fine, I’ll go slower.” Crowley rolls his eyes, attributing Aziraphale’s nervousness to his reckless driving.

When he parks in front of the bookshop, Aziraphale’s mouth is dry and his voice is raspy when he asks (begs), “please, please come inside.”

Crowley takes him on the floor, just barely through the door. It’s rough and desperate and beautiful and for the first time, Aziraphale allows himself to recognise this as _making love_. In the throes of it, he cups Crowley’s face in his hands, looks at him in his beautiful golden eyes, and the words, thankfully, don't quite leave his lips – how he loves him, though. He loves him back. He loves him so much it hurts.

Then a second time, a little slower, on the couch they barely fit on, drunk on each other’s nearness, knocking books off the side table. Aziraphale giggles and Crowley gives a short bark of laughter at the crash and it’s perfect, and Aziraphale loves him so terribly much his old, superfluous heart is going to burst.

They make it upstairs to Aziraphale’s small flat, to his bed, and they spend the whole night there. They don’t say _I miss you_ or _it’s been so long_ (they can’t), but Crowley gives him a very detailed account of what exactly he had dreamed of during his nap. With Crowley’s serpentine tongue whispering filth into his ear, Aziraphale comes an embarrassing number of times in rapid succession, having decided refractory periods are something ethereal beings can do without. And then, little by little, he tells Crowley about how he touched himself (but not how his heart longed for him). About how he couldn’t stop thinking about the demon’s hands (but not his face, his smile, his enchanting eyes), about his mouth on him (but not how he makes him laugh, how he can comfort him in just a few words, how he kisses like his life depends on it). The love in the room is smothering. Aziraphale lets himself be pulled under.

The light of morning finds him with his wrists tied over his head, his lover (his _love_) straddling him and making him peak once more all over his chest before leaning down to lick at his skin, then back up to let Aziraphale sample himself. He shivers at the feeling of Crowley’s forked tongue between his lips. It’s not often that the demon loses all control of his physical form, but several hours of frantic fucking, Aziraphale guesses, have done the trick. Crowley is showing off a hint of fangs, sleek black wings, and scattered patches of scales along his body. His eyes are molten gold – not only is it completely undeniable that Aziraphale is in love, but also that he’s in love with a demon. And, Lord forgive him, Aziraphale _likes_ it. He likes the teeth sinking into his skin; he likes the pebble of scales smooth under his fingers. At some point during the night he found that, if he grabs roughly at the base of Crowley’s wings, the demon goes boneless and pliant under his touch, and what a discovery that was.

When they’re sated – at least for the time being – there’s a whole hour where they do nothing but lie in each other’s arms and breathe. The first to say a word will break the spell, so neither of them do. This isn’t safe. They can’t overindulge like this. It’s day now, and they should be working, or at least pretending to work.

Aziraphale takes a breath to speak, but Crowley beats him to it. “Right,” he says, leaving a kiss on his left temple before starting to stand up. “It’s time I go.” The angel watches him from the bed as he waves away any remaining filth. In a blink, Crowley’s dressed, his hair perfectly coiffed. He turns to look at Aziraphale, both eyebrows raised over the sunglasses. “Are you all right?”

Aziraphale is shaken out of his thoughts. “I—yes, yes. Sorry.” He smiles, and he can feel all his fondness and relief pouring through his lips. “I’m just—happy to see you after so long, that’s all.”

For a moment, Crowley looks like he's seen a ghost. Then he clears his throat, averts his gaze. “Yeah, well.” He _might _have said something that sounds suspiciously like ‘_same, angel’_, but it’s so quiet and stilted it might just be one of Crowley’s many stuttering noises. “I’ll, uh.” The demon glances back at him and quickly turns away again, as if he’s afraid to meet the angel's gaze for too long. “See you. Bye.”

“Have a good day, Crowley,” Aziraphale calls after him. Then, he slumps back into the bed, holding a pillow to his chest.

Twenty-something years later, Aziraphale will give Crowley a tartan thermos with shaky fingers. _Please_, he’ll beg silently, _this has the power to destroy the thing that’s most precious to me. Please, please be careful._

But because he loves Crowley – and he does, unfortunately, love Crowley with all his heart – he has to trust him. Aziraphale tries to smile as he promises picnics and dinners at the Ritz. He’s almost certain, even as he says it out loud, that it will never happen for them.

But oh, he has to hope.


	11. South Downs, 2020

He loves the cottage they get out in the South Downs. It’s quaint, it’s warm, it’s beautiful. The cottage is not the problem.

He loves the small town the cottage is in. The people are nice and kind and a bit nosy, but he doesn’t mind them much at all. The people are not the problem. 

And Aziraphale loves Crowley, he loves him so much he can’t help smiling every time he sees him, even if it’s several times a day. Crowley is definitely not the problem.

He loves their new life together. He’s a being of love, and he’s finally in his element.

_And yet._

Crowley is taking to it much better than Aziraphale is. The demon has his garden, his greenhouse in the back, his Bentley to drive around when he’s bored, and Aziraphale is pretty sure he’s been conspiring with the local food establishments to start pumpkin spice season in August and candy cane latte season in September. His dear, dear Crowley, who lives for a bit of drama, who loves silly, grand schemes that do nothing more than annoy the general population. He’s toned it down some, in recent months. No more messing with highways or mobile phone networks for him, he’s a retired demon now.

Aziraphale… well, he has his books. He has occupied almost the whole of the first floor for his private library, and his books have trickled downstairs to the sitting room and pretty much everywhere else in the house. Crowley tolerates this with frustrated patience.

Aziraphale has been spending most of his time holed up indoors. Crowley has tried, unsuccessfully, to coax him out: for dinner, for a movie, for a picnic. No dice. Aziraphale has turned it all down, and Crowley hasn’t pressed the matter.

After six months, Aziraphale senses Crowley circling him anxiously like a shark, unsure of where to start, what to say. And oh, the angel hates making Crowley think he’s done something wrong. Crowley is perfect, even with all his flaws and all his rough edges. He’s absolutely perfect for him.

One night, it finally happens. The tension has been building and building, and when Crowley sees Aziraphale picking at his food, he loses his patience. He stands up and drops on one knee in front of Aziraphale’s chair. “What do you need?” He asks, his golden eyes bare and open. “Tell me what you need. I’ll get it for you.”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale reaches down to stroke Crowley’s cheek, his heart swelling. What has he ever done to deserve him? “My darling. There is nothing else I need.”

Crowley is very quiet when he speaks again. “Then why aren’t you happy?” He murmurs, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand. He's holding onto it like he’s afraid the angel is going to stand up and leave this, leave him. If he doesn't reply as quickly as he can muster, Aziraphale’s throat might just close on him in guilt.

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” He blurts, shaking his head energetically and offering a smile. “I’m very happy here. I am so sorry if that wasn’t clear to you.”

“’Course it’s not clear to me. You’re living like a recluse, and I can’t figure out what’s wrong.” He glances around the room, as though searching for an offender. “Is it the house? Is it the town? We can change it, I don’t care—”

“No, Crowley, everything is lovely, I assure you—”

Crowley stands up. “So it _is_ me. Is it me? You have to tell me, Aziraphale, you owe me at least that much, I can’t—”

“No!” Aziraphale stands to throw his arms around Crowley, tethering him in place. “It’s me. It’s me, I swear. I just…” He bites on his lower lip, unsure whether to go on, but then Crowley is looking down at him with so much concern in his eyes, he just has to tell him. “I’ve been looking over my shoulder for six thousand years. I… I can’t stop. I keep feeling like something bad is just around the corner. I know it’s not. I know they’ll leave us alone. I know we’re safe. But I’m… I find myself paralyzed with fear. And I’m so sorry, Crowley. This was supposed to be our happy ending, and I’m afraid I have rather ruined it.”

“Angel…” Crowley is quiet for a long time, and his arms are around Aziraphale now, one hand on his back holding him to the demon's chest, the other stroking his hair. Aziraphale isn’t quite to the point of crying, but he can feel the need rising. So he breathes in Crowley’s smell, calming himself down. “Let’s… start small, okay?”

Aziraphale presses his face into his shirt. Even this simple comfort had been forbidden to him for such a long time. He never realised how much control he was crushed under until he freed himself for good. “How do you mean?”

“What about coming outside with me, to see how the ivy has grown? It’s dark now. No one will see us.”

Aziraphale thinks about it, then nods. There’s a truly strange disconnect between his mind and his corporation; one tells him nothing bad is about to happen, and the other refuses to move, like a stubborn mule. But he can do the garden. He can do it with Crowley.

The ivy has been growing beautifully over one side of the cottage. In the summer, it will bloom and be even more lovely. Aziraphale feels the graze of fresh night air on his skin, hears the bugs humming in the distance. Oh, this is nice. This is safe. Crowley’s hand never leaves his.

Crowley kisses the top of his head, then shows him the daffodils he’s been growing under the living room window. A little bit farther along the wall there’s a wonderful patch of lavender. And, over the hedge, Aziraphale spots the sea, shining dark and magnificent under the moonlight.

“Can we go?” He asks, his eyes fixated on it.

Crowley follows his gaze. “Do you want to?” Aziraphale nods. “Then yes, sure. It’s a ten minute walk.”

The demon interlaces their fingers and gently, ever so gently, leads him down to the beach. Aziraphale keeps his eyes on the sea the whole time. If he just focuses on it, he’ll be fine. It’s so calm tonight; its gentle sounds could put him right to sleep. They help soothe his hectic heartbeat.

They stand on the sandy shore for a few minutes, then Crowley takes off his shoes. He glances at Aziraphale with both eyebrows raised in invitation, and the angel decides to do the same. He leaves his shoes and socks where the waves won’t reach and steps into the sea.

The water is cold on his toes. Almost painfully so. But it’s also an exhilarating feeling. They’re here – he and Crowley. They’ve made it. They’re under the open sky, daring Heaven and Hell and God Herself to come down and tear them apart.

And nothing is happening. No one is coming for them. No one dares to.

His smile is a bit wobbly when he turns to Crowley, but the demon’s grin is wide and sure. Yes, they’re going to be alright, aren’t they?

It’s a moment of madness, Aziraphale knows. But he’s just so _happy_. Suddenly the thumping of his heart in his chest isn’t anxiety – it’s excitement for what is to come. The expanse of space around them doesn’t make him feel exposed, it makes him feel free. And the love of his life is right there beside him, beautiful and as sure as anything.

Crowley’s jaw drops when Aziraphale starts unbuttoning his jacket. “What are you…”

But Aziraphale just laughs, and laughs, and laughs like he hasn’t in… maybe ever. The tension that’s been strangling him finally leaves his body. He goes back towards the beach, drops his clothes in a pile near his shoes, and runs back into the water in nothing but his underpants and undershirt.

Crowley watches him like he’s gone crazy (perhaps he has), but also like he doesn’t really mind this new side of the angel. And then, of course, he smirks like the evil little creature he is, and with a snap of his fingers sends all of his clothes – underwear included – to the beach. Then, he dives after Aziraphale. If you have to skinny dip, might as well do it with style.

Aziraphale has never quite learned to swim, so he has to stop when the water gets too deep, but that doesn’t matter. Things are great just as they are. Crowley reaches him, his lithe, naked body pressing against Aziraphale. In the water, Crowley weighs nothing at all when Aziraphale hooks his hands on his thighs and lifts him up. They kiss under the stars and Crowley tastes like salt and wine and _home_.

They get out of the water stumbling, hand in hand. Crowley looks him up and down, and Aziraphale realises the damp curls on his head must be a mess. His underclothes are sticking to his body. The demon barks out a laugh. “I cannot believe you’d do something like this.”

“I'm not taking criticism from someone who’s starkers at the beach!” Aziraphale replies, giggling.

“Oh, I’ll show you who’s _starkers_.” Crowley promises, and he pulls Aziraphale down onto the sand, lifting his vest up and over his head as he kisses him hotly. Aziraphale can’t help smiling into the kiss, and Crowley lets out a sound that's between a sigh and a whimper. “Angel… you don’t know what you do to me.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes, cupping a hand behind Crowley’s head to guide him to his neck. “What do I do to you?”

Crowley shakes his head a little, as if he can’t possibly reply, then he does anyway. “When you—” He presses three kisses to Aziraphale’s neck. One under his ear, one under his jaw, one right over his pulse. “When you smile like…”

Aziraphale pets the back of his head. “Hm?”

“Like you’re not afraid of anything,” He tells the sliver of sensitive skin between Aziraphale’s neck and his shoulder.

The angel considers this for a moment. Maybe the fear will come back, but if he can hold onto this feeling – that everything will be alright in the end – he’ll be fine. “Crowley,” he says, running a hand down the demon’s smooth back. “Would you? Here?”

“Would I what?” Crowley pulls back to look him in the eyes, sees his little smile and the suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows. “You _what_? You want—here? Now?” Aziraphale nods once, firmly. “Angel!” Crowley is laughing again, and Aziraphale has decided: that’s his favourite sound in the whole world. “Is this how you are when you’re _unleashed_?”

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale replies with a little giggle, guiding Crowley’s hands to the waistband of his underwear. “Is that a yes?”

“Oh, bless it all, of course it’s a yes.” Crowley pulls his pants away in a flash, pressing their wet bodies together and exhaling in relief.

There’s no one around, but if someone were to walk by they’d be completely visible under the milky light of the moon. That’s the whole point. Aziraphale is so tired of hiding. He’ll be terribly sorry if they happen to scare a random human who decided a nighttime beach stroll was a good idea, but he’ll make sure to offer them a cup of tea and a tin of biscuits after wiping their memory. He deserves to experience this.

“Crowley, oh…” Aziraphale sighs as the demon straddles him, rubbing against him, hard and wet and warm. “Oh, my dear.” He brings a hand to Crowley’s face, asking to be looked in the eyes. “I’ve loved you so terribly, for so long. It’s been so hard to keep quiet. I'll tell you—_ah, oh, Crowley_—I'll tell you every day now.”

Crowley, panting, gathers their cocks in his hand, miraculously slick and hot all of a sudden. “Say it again,” He growls, an edge of desperation to his voice that makes it sound like a need rather than a request. “Say my name.”

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale moans immediately, his back arching off the sand, pressing into Crowley’s body. The starry sky overhead begins to blur as his eyelids flutter, all logical thought leaving his mind as he gets lost in the feeling of Crowley’s hand around him, of Crowley’s cock pulsing and leaking and grinding against his. “I love you, Crowley. I love you, I love you, I—”

He doesn’t get to repeat it again, and it doesn’t matter. Crowley’s love fills his mind, his heart, his lungs as Aziraphale keens and comes between their bodies, closely followed by his lover. They kiss, afterwards, for a very long time – so long that Crowley has to pull a blanket out of thin air so they can wrap themselves in it and lie side by side, warm and safe.

Aziraphale basks in that perfect moment as long as he can, but isn’t sad to let it go when they eventually have to return to the cottage. Their life together has just started, and no one – not Hell, not Heaven, not a single thing in between – will stop him from shielding Crowley under his wing from all the rains that are to come.

Until the end of time.

And, from now on – his wings will be just as well groomed as his demon’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone in this bar is having feelings because I'm having A LOT.
> 
> First of all, shout out to [Ingthing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingthing/) for spending eleven days in a row betaing this for me LIKE A TROOPER to keep up with my crazy posting schedule and being the best beta I could hope for. I just want to point out many of our conversations went something like "Cham, what you wrote is not even remotely historically accurate" "Yeah, but it's sexy" "OKAY FAIR ENOUGH".
> 
> Second of all, the support for this fic has been amazing every single day. I did not see this coming and I don't know what to even say. IT'S FEELINGS O' CLOCK Y'ALL. I want to thank everyone who followed this work chapter by chapter and encouraged me to keep posting, it's incredibly helpful and lately I'm always smiling when my phone pings ✨ but also thanks to all the folks who were waiting for the last chapter to drop so they could read this all in one go with no interruption, that is also flattering AF.
> 
> In case you're looking for more stuff like this, I had already tested this secret lovers concept in [One Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20378239) (heed the tags), and also I've already written masquerade porn in [That Time in Venice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19977409), in which Aziraphale is Very Extra and Crowley wears Very Sexy boots. Or huh, just go through my page I'm <strike>obsessed</strike> quite on brand all the time.
> 
> I have more smut in the works so see you all soon 💖 In the meantime, I hope everyone's following the [Flaming Like Anything Zine](https://flaminglikeanythingzine.tumblr.com/) page. Juuust saying.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [If you'd be willing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760410) by [Nymphalis_antiopa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphalis_antiopa/pseuds/Nymphalis_antiopa)


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